Since Brevity is the Soul of Wit
by theDubliner
Summary: Little bits and pieces and drabbles. Chapter ten posted, detailing the six times Sherlock Holmes was ashamed to be himself ... and the one time he wasn't.
1. Stay

_Author's Note: Well, I've given in. I have far too many ideas for Sherlock nonsense that won't fit into any real story plot. Therefore, a lovely collection of drabble/one-shots. I hope to publish fairly frequently under this title, as these types of little snippets are fun and sweet and easy to pop off. Anyhow, I've never done so before, but I'll take requests for anything you'd like to see - might be a nice challenge for me. I'm open to anything, haha. Anyhow, this is the first and I'm really very fond of it, so do please leave me some nice words in review and we shall be excellent friends indeed. Cheers._

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><p>Sherlock Holmes did not sleep often, as a rule. When he did, it was the sleep of the dead. Sherlock's body seemed to get so few precious hours of rest that when it was finally allowed to slow down in the early morning hours, it actually and truly shut down completely. And it could do so anywhere. When Sherlock had finished a case, after three and a half days running on no sleep and hardly a morsel of food, the man could collapse just about anywhere. John Watson had taken to walking closer to his friend than usual on these occasions, fully aware that he might be responsible for catching him.<p>

So on this particular Thursday afternoon, John was only a few inches behind Sherlock as he followed the great man through the winding roads of London. The grand reveal at Scotland Yard had taken place – Sherlock had made sure to make a crack about Anderson's nose and grinned away Donovan's scowl, as was his wont, and so had left in a flurry of highly self-satisfied airs. But the case was over, and the long walk through a dim and rainy city had sapped the adrenaline from his veins. Sherlock's gait was becoming a little slower and his eyelids were drooping dangerously.

The changes were subtle – John Watson was, perhaps, the only one who could have spotted them. But spot them he did, and so he was currently trying to guide his friend's footsteps to the best of his ability by popping up on one side of him, then the other – herding Sherlock down the right paths like a shaggy blonde sheepdog.

"You look absurd, John, stop that," Sherlock mumbled half-heartedly.

"Stop what?" John feigned ignorance, "I don't – what am I doing?"

Sherlock sighed, though it was through a small smile. He pulled the doctor around to face him. Though he meant the gesture to prove his stability, it didn't help that he found himself leaning on his friend, his hands firmly clasped on each of the shorter man's shoulder, feeling off-kilter and slightly dizzy.

"See?" John reprimanded, trying not to let Sherlock's weight land them both on the floor.

"See what?" Sherlock tried to sound angry, but his chin was drooping to his chest even as he said it – the only thing keeping him upright was John's solid shoulders.

John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock back around to the side of his body. And so the duo wobbled their way home – Sherlock's long arm cast around John's neck, looking every bit a pair of drunks in the middle of the day.

"Steady on," John mumbled as he heaved the massive weight of his friend up the long – damn long – flight of stairs.

They made it only to the top of the stairs when Sherlock felt his knees buckle beneath him. "Ah," he half-sighed, half-whimpered, "Just here John, this will be fine. Here …"

"Sherlock," John sounded concerned, "Your bedroom's just there – surely we can make it as far as –"

"No," Sherlock shook his head in slow motion, "No no. Just here. The sofa, John, the…" and then he was gone, melted, completely out. John was left to drag his friend's limp body the remaining few feet to the couch. He pushed and prodded and tugged all of Sherlock's absurdly long limbs onto the sofa and into a position that looked relatively comfortable. John knew it didn't matter – Sherlock was practically dead in this state. And yet … the doctor suddenly felt oddly protective. This was the first time they hadn't made it to Sherlock's room (at which point the detective would normally slam the door and take care of _himself_), and the sofa seemed so very exposed...

John stood back to admire his handy-work, and looked at Sherlock's face, really looked at it, and noticed the expression there. So _that_ was why the detective made sure he was safely secluded within the walls of his own room before dozing – the man was absolutely the picture of innocence. His brow was softened, his mouth was not frowning but almost, almost smiling. His chest rose and fell as soft breezes of air came and went through perfectly parted lips. His cheeks even seemed slightly less than their usual deathly pale under the warm glow of domestic lamp-light. His eyelashes were perfectly still. John wasted a few foolish seconds letting his eyes explore this bizarre and glorious person who was most certainly not the snide and sneering Sherlock Holmes. With his guard down, completely unaware of everything around him. Completely … vulnerable.

John swallowed and quickly went for a blanket.

The good doctor tucked the comforter around his friend with the same gentle touches he might use on a small child. Around the slim shoulders, under the small of the back, around and about the feet.

John sighed unconsciously, and seemed to startle himself with the unexpected sound. His reverie disturbed, John decided to put the kettle on. It had, after all, been a hellish couple of days for him too, and a nice warm cup of tea would do him a world of good before bed.

So John filled the kettle and pulled a cup from the cupboard. Then he peaked his head about to make sure Sherlock was still sleeping soundly.

Yes, right. He was there. Of course he was. Good.

The hiss of the kettle pulled John back to the kitchen. He poured the water, added an ample spoonful of honey. But there was a sound in the living room and John couldn't help but just look _once_ more …

Nope, still asleep. Of course. Silly.

John went back to retrieve his tea and then took it to the living room.

He started in the armchair, of course, with every intention of unwinding with a little afternoon telly. But … even though he knew it wasn't possible, he just couldn't take the chance that the noise might wake the sleeping Sherlock. So then he tried a newspaper. But even the crinkling of the pages seemed like firecrackers in the perfect silence of the room. Not only that, but the light – God, the light was much, _much_ too bright. John hurried to switch off the lamp and was very satisfied when only the pale grey glow of the overcast afternoon remained in the room.

So the telly was too loud, and it was now too dark to read… Well, John would simply sit in silence with his tea, then. Nothing at all the matter with that. Just a man, with his tea, sitting on his living room floor, in the dark, listening to his flatmate's breathing …

_Well_, John thought to himself, _when you put it that way …_

It wasn't long before the tea was cold and it was not the London afternoon looking in on doctor and detective, but the London moon. John had fallen asleep just where he'd sat – his head resting on folded arms against the sofa, only centimeters from Sherlock's pale cheek. Their breathing synchronized and their cares drowned in the peace and the starlight.

Mrs. Hudson came up around ten – worried that she hadn't heard so much as a peep from the boys since they'd gotten home. When she walked through the still-open door, she made a little squeak and covered her mouth quickly. There was Sherlock – lovingly wrapped mummy-tight in John's quilt, his face now unconsciously turned towards the doctor's in sleep. And there was John – huddled beside the couch, the arm on which his head rested stretched out towards his friend. He'd kicked the tea in his sleep and it darkened the carpet near to his knees. Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly, put a towel on the spilt tea and a blanket around John's shoulders. The good landlady kissed both her boys on the forehead and let herself out, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

And then the night was at it's darkest and the city was almost completely silent outside their window. John shifted in his sleep – his body protesting against the painful position his mind refused to acknowledge in the depths of sleep. The doctor's foggy brain thought about getting up, moving to his own bed – surely warmer and much, much more comfortable. But then...

In the morning he'd swear it was all a dream, but in that moment – in the predawn place between sleeping and waking – John swore Sherlock must have read his mind, sensed his intention to move, because he heard Sherlock's voice in that moment. Just one word, but what John would later claim to be a dream had seemed crystal clear in the stillness and haze of half-sleep.

Sherlock whispered, "Stay."


	2. Extraordinary

_Author's Note: I've never written anything with Molly as a main character before - I'm a little nervous, haha. Anyhow, wrote this yesterday during class, I hope you enjoy it. I really think Miss Hooper is far more complex than we tend to give her credit for, and I tried to explore that complexity just a little bit in this chapter. I do plan to revisit the character in future chapters. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and subscribed - please continue to do so : ) you're all lovely._

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><p>Molly Hooper had never been attracted to ordinary men. In high school she'd chased after college boys – in college she'd pined over her professors. When she herself had acquired a doctorate, she seemed to have reached the pinnacle of academic excellence and so worried there would be nobody left to chase after. Then, of course, Sherlock Holmes had walked into her life in a blaze of arrogance and glory. She remembered quite clearly the afternoon Mike Stamford had popped his head into the morgue and declared:<p>

"Got somebody coming in later to take a look at some bodies, Molly, got permission to wheel them out from Lestrade."

"What?" Molly had been slightly annoyed: "A cop?"

Mike shook his head and smiled knowingly, "No, definitely not a cop. Don't worry, you'll like him."

And like him she had. From the moment he'd stepped through the door of the chilly mortuary, walked purposefully up to the corpse displayed on the table, examined its fingernails, and declared to Lestrade: "See, look there. Of course I was right."

And Lestrade – whom Molly knew quite well due to his frequent trips to St. Bart's and who was, perhaps, the toughest man Molly knew – gave a defeated little chuckle and put his palms face-up in surrender. "How did you know he'd be–"

Sherlock had very rudely interrupted, "It's really quite obvious, isn't it?" When Lestrade didn't answer, Sherlock had gone through a very rapid, very thorough description of a case that Molly really knew nothing whatsoever about, but which seemed to culminate in the conclusion that the man on the slab was not the victim of some violent crime – he had, in fact, been the perpetrator, and: "Do _please_ try to follow along, Inspector, I _despise_ having to repeat myself."

Molly had made a little squeak of surprise. Surely the inspector would not tolerate this type of disrespect. Molly was certain the insolent newcomer was about to receive what was probably not his first black eye. But her own surprised noise had distracted the two men, and they both looked at her. It was the first time the taller man had even noticed her. He creased his brow at her. "What was that? I'm sorry, did you … squeak?"

Molly shook her head quickly, cheeks flaming a bright, hot pink.

Sherlock turned back to the DI: "You had best get back to Scotland Yard, Lestrade," then he grinned nastily: "You'll have a _mountain_ of paperwork, I'm quite sure."

Lestrade smiled a small smile in agreement and rolled his shoulders wearily. "Yes. Right as usual." Then he turned to Molly and smiled genuinely: "Thanks a million, Molly. I know you're probably in overtime for this."

Molly had smiled reassuringly – as far as cops went, she rather liked Lestrade. At least he was one of the few men in her life that still treated her like a lady.

"Goodnight," the Inspector departed.

When Molly had turned back around, it was to find the man Stamford had told her she'd "like", the man called Sherlock Holmes, taking himself on a tour. He pulled open drawers, lifted up white sheets, opened jars and sniffed at their contents.

"Excuse me," Molly began timidly, "Mr., um, Holmes, is it? I'm sorry, but you will have to leave now, I-"

Sherlock Holmes straightened up to his full height and approached Molly slowly, soundlessly. "I beg your pardon," he cocked his head to one side, observing the girl carefully – the girl who hadn't merited a second glance twenty seconds ago. _The tired lines around the eyes; the careful cut and modest style of dress beneath the white lab coat; the pink splotches of a blush across her cheeks; the wide, intelligent eyes_. Overworked, underappreciated, and desperately craving some attention.

Sherlock smiled, and he looked dashing.

"I just thought I might linger for a few moments longer. You don't … _mind_, do you?"

Molly stuttered under the full force of Sherlock's gaze. "Well, I really should be closing up, you know, and it really wouldn't do to have-"

But Sherlock took the young lady by the shoulder and pulled her along by his side. "Oh," he simpered dramatically, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Molly felt her entire body buzzing.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the grand tour?" Sherlock looked down on the young lady, his teeth sparkling white like an alluring predator.

And Molly Hooper was doomed. Strolling about a mortuary in the dead of night, showing corpses to an intriguing sociopath with bad manners, cold hands, and impeccable speech. Oh yes, Miss Hooper was in love.

And Sherlock knew it, and Molly knew he knew – but they continued along just the same. Sherlock became a frequent visitor to St. Bart's morgue, and Molly made vain attempts to impress him. But she knew it was futile. The men Molly Hooper chased after were always unattainable. But that was all right – because she was making progress, wasn't she? The college boys from her high school days had never even looked at her; her professors at university never bothered to smile in her direction. Sherlock Holmes smiled at her occasionally – even if it was oftentimes little more than a haughty grin – and he would look at her, too, if he weren't particularly engrossed in his work.

But it was enough. Molly Hooper wasn't like other girls. She didn't expect to seduce Sherlock – couldn't even fathom the idea of sex with him. In fact – if push came to shove – sex probably terrified Miss Hooper as much as it did the object of her fixation.

No. Molly Hooper had never been attracted to ordinary men, and she supposed she had found the most extraordinary of them all in the form of Sherlock Holmes. So it was alright that he called her "John" from time to time, and it was permissible that they could sometimes work elbow-to-elbow all afternoon when the detective would suddenly turn his head and exclaim: "Ah, Molly, when did you get here?" Because Molly was more than content to look and not touch. Some things, Molly knew, were far too fine for clumsy human fingers, anyhow…

"Molly, what can you _possibly_ be thinking of?"

Sherlock Holmes was sitting across the room at a black granite lab table. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his slim fingers were resting on a microscope. But his eyes were on Molly, and he was looking bemused.

"S-sorry?" Molly stuttered nervously.

"You've been unresponsive for nearly fifteen minutes." His tone was mildly irritated.

"Have I?" Molly's eyes widened in mortification.

Sherlock watched her suspiciously. But after a moment he smiled and turned the microscope in her direction. "Come here. I need you to look at something for me."


	3. Date Night

_Author's Note: I'm a little sad nobody seemed to enjoy my Molly very much, lol, but no matter. Here's another little Sherlock and John fic, featuring a very possessive Sherlock Holmes and a very frustrated and adorable John Watson. It's a little longer than usual, but with a little more action and dialogue, which is always good for me to practice, so please enjoy!_

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><p>John Watson thought the date had gone along without a hitch. Lovely dinner, a little handholding under the table, and several little feminine hints that let John know the woman across from him was more than interested if John was … interested. So John had opened the cab door for Emma at the end of the evening, and slid in beside her, silently cursing himself for not choosing a nice, normal flatmate. A person who would understand when John brought a girl home that it meant: "Hey, get lost, I'm looking for a little privacy" – you know, basic gentleman code. Sherlock Holmes understood no such thing. John did not bring women home because Sherlock Holmes was his flatmate, and Sherlock Holmes would most likely be in the process of boiling some human eyeballs when he and Emma got home – the smell of which would surely end all romantic intentions.<p>

So John was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock had texted him:

_Still in Dorset with Lestrade. Case not solved. Won't be home tonight. –SH_

John had not hesitated to redirect the cabbie, then settled back in his seat, lazily extending his arm around Emma's shoulders.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes sent the text and then settled back on the sofa, lazily draping his arm over the back. Yes, nine-thirty, John and his date should just be getting out of dinner about this time. The devilish grin upon the detective's face would have terrified John, had he been there to observe it.<p>

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><p>John followed Emma up the stairs.<p>

"Like to watch a movie?" he suggested, hoping beyond hope that Emma would understand the barely disguised implication.

Emma dropped her purse on Sherlock's chair, which made John cringe thought he couldn't have told you why, and smiled. "Love to."

The movie in question was some awful romantic nonsense John had rented last month, lovesick and depressed when his last girlfriend had dumped him because Sherlock had scared her off.

The credits had barely begun when John felt Emma's hand on his thigh…

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><p>Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, in the dark, carefully counting the minutes. He heard the opening credits of some mundane film and tried to picture the scene downstairs. When he thought the time was ripe, he stood and tugged on his dressing gown before noiselessly heading towards the unsuspecting couple.<p>

Sherlock stopped just outside the living room, indulging in an excited little smile before composing himself and strolling casually around the corner...

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><p>John was just congratulating himself on his good fortune when he spotted Sherlock. Mid-snog, John jumped off of Emma as if he'd been electrically shocked.<p>

"Sh-Sherlock!" he yelled, "_What_ are you doing?"

Sherlock faked surprise. "Oh, John, sorry mate!"

John looked at Sherlock incredulously. "_Mate_?" he asked, disgusted, "What the _hell_-"

Sherlock plopped down on his chair and pulled Emma's purse out from under him. He tossed it to John mockingly. "Didn't know you were bringing a lady over, I'd have tidied the place up a bit."

John ground his teeth together. "You said you were staying in _Dorset _tonight."

"Did I?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side and feigned ignorance. "No, I think you misunderstood."

Emma looked from John and back to his roommate, thoroughly confused.

John took a deep breath through his nose and decided that two could play this game. "Well, as you can see, Emma and I were just watching a movie, so if you'd like to just-"

"Oh!" Sherlock smiled happily, "What are we watching?"

"_We_ are not watching anything. _Emma and I_ are watching. _You_ can just take yourself right back upstairs."

Sherlock made himself look so pathetic in that moment that the poor, girlish heart of Emma melted on the spot. She turned to John and put her hand on his knee. "Oh, John, your friend can stay..."

When John's jaw dropped, Emma continued: "We could … open a bottle of wine, make a little party of it?"

John looked from Emma to Sherlock – who was smiling an arrogant little smile over Emma's shoulder – and sighed in defeat.

"Oh fine, yes, lovely. Why the hell not."

Emma turned back to smile conspiratorially at Sherlock, as if she'd just done him an immense favor. She looked genuinely excited for their evening, and Sherlock almost felt a little guilty. Almost.

Sherlock returned the giddy smile and stood. "Lovely!" he declared, "C'mon then, John, let's see what we've got in the kitchen!" Sherlock hurried out of the room.

John nodded wearily and followed Sherlock to the kitchen.

The detective was sitting on the counter, swinging his legs merrily. John ignored him and opened the refrigerator angrily. He proceeded to open and close cabinets with far more force than was necessary, finding nothing even remotely edible.

When John was finally fed up with his friend's stupid, happy silence, he turned his angry energy on the detective. "Is there a _reason_ you're doing this?"

Sherlock dropped the simple act immediately. He examined his fingernails and drawled lazily, dropping right back into the Sherlock John knew: "I was bored, John, and you were taking far too long on your date."

"So why in the hell would you lie and say you were in Dorset? That doesn't even make-"

"I _said_," Sherlock replied angrily, "that you were taking too long on your date, which meant it was going well. When dates go well, they end up in bedrooms. I knew you'd never bring your date here to _your_ bedroom if you knew I was here, and you were taking too long already. If you went to her house you wouldn't have been home until the morning."

"So? What do you bloody _care_ if I-"

Sherlock shrugged. "I told you, I was bored. Wanted you to come home."

John was almost touched. He thought what Sherlock was _trying_ to say was that he'd missed him…

He took a deep breath. "Sherlock," he said a little more calmly, "if you want me to come home, you could just text and tell me _that_ instead of some rubbish about-"

"No no no," Sherlock waved it away. "This was much more fun."

"But-"

"Anyway, you should be thanking me."

"_Thanking_ you? What for?"

"I could have timed my entrance fifteen minutes later than I did."

John swallowed. _Yes, well, that was certainly true…_

Sherlock smiled at the uncomfortable look on his friend's face. "See?"

John sighed. "If I let you stay, will you _promise_ to be civil?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, weighing his options. "What's in it for me?"

"What's in it for – _Sherlock_! Emma wants to stay, so I'm going to try to make this work, but if you are going to be difficult, I'll simply take her home. Now, please, _try_ and be reasonable."

Sherlock frowned. He didn't want John to leave, but… "Define '_reasonable_'…"

John threw up his hands in frustration.

"No no!" Sherlock started quickly, "I'm sorry. No, of course. Whatever you say, Dr. Watson."

John turned back to face his friend, skeptical.

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat. If it meant that John was going to stay… "You won't leave?" he asked, quietly.

John's eyebrows creased in confusion, but he shook his head. "No, I won't leave… But you have to _promise_ you will just sit quietly and watch the movie."

"I can't say _anything_?" Sherlock looked like a scolded puppy.

"Not a word," John said dangerously.

Sherlock fumed for a moment but stuck out his hand: "Deal." It was a means to an end.

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><p>Three hours later, and John was packing Emma into a cab. Thoughts of sex wholly abandoned, the good doctor settled for a chaste goodnight kiss and watched the taxi drive away.<p>

When he got back upstairs, Sherlock was sitting in his chair expectantly.

John watched him cautiously as he closed the door behind him. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose I should congratulate you."

"On?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow curiously.

"You did _actually_ manage to keep quiet through the entire movie."

Sherlock looked a little hurt. "I promised, didn't I?"

John plopped down in the chair opposite. "Yes, I suppose you did." He still looked relatively miffed.

They sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock studied John, and John pretended to flick through the channels on the telly.

"You're angry with me, John."

John sighed. Well, if they were going to play the honesty game… "_Why_ do you do that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Do what?"

"Sabotage every relationship I-"

"Sabotage?" Sherlock sounded mildly offended, "John, I did exactly as you asked."

"Yes, but you texted me on purpose to get me to come home. If you _knew_ I was enjoying myself, and if you _knew_ I was going to … well … with Emma, then _why_ would you want to interfere with my night?"

Sherlock stayed doggedly silent, so John continued.

"You do this with all of them, you know. Sarah, then Hannah, and Janette, and Lucy. Now Emma – you always seem to get in the middle. Why?" John cocked his head to the side, preparing for some infuriatingly sarcastic response.

But Sherlock Holmes looked him full in the face and said, quite honestly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: "Because I like having you to myself."

John stuttered over his response, "Wh-what? I don't…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh come, John, you know all of this, surely."

John just sat silent, awaiting more information.

Sherlock took a breath and sat up a little straighter. "You're my _friend_, John. I don't have many, I don't have … any, really, besides you. You know that. I've grown accustomed to having you around."

John looked annoyed. "_Accustomed to having me_ – what, like a dog? Like the bloody skull?"

Sherlock sighed. This was not going as he had planned. "No," he corrected firmly. He thought for a moment before proceeding, his low baritone rumbling uncomfortably over the words: "You are _my_ flatmate, John, and you are _my_ friend. And I … I do not like other people touching _my_ things."

John stared at his friend, completely aghast. "_Your_-"

"No," Sherlock held up a hand to stop the doctor's protestations. "No, you're right, I'm sorry, that came out quite wrong."

John waited patiently for his friend to begin again.

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip in an uncharacteristic show of self-doubt. He thought for approximately ninety-four seconds before responding. "Well," he sighed anticlimactically, "it appears I haven't got a better explanation at present."

John stood angrily.

"John?" Sherlock stopped him, and there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

John turned to face his friend, and Sherlock stood uneasily.

"John, suffice it to say that I … I rather miss you when you're not here."

John's face softened just the slightest bit.

"And I would … _appreciate_ it, if you would refrain from leaving the flat. Yes," Sherlock smiled a little, as if he had figured out what it was he had wanted to say, "Yes, that's it. If you would just … not leave … ever."

John smiled sadly, "Sherlock … I think that's a little unreasonable."

Sherlock's face fell. "Oh."

There was silence for a beat, and then John sighed.

"Like to watch a movie?" he asked, as a peace offering.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but decided not to push his luck. After all, he'd won, hadn't he? John was here, with him … and that was enough.


	4. Nightmares

_Author's Note: Hello again. I know this idea has been used and reused and recycled many, many times. And yet I couldn't help but write a little something on the matter. It's nothing spectacular, but I wanted to write something simple and easy and fun, so here it is. I do hope you enjoy, and please review. Also, next drabble coming shortly, in which John recounts (in a very sexually-charged manner) all the ways in which he is not gay, hehe. It's already written, so maybe it'll be up tomorrow. Please enjoy : )_

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><p>The first time John Watson had a nightmare at Baker Street, it was something of a shock. After all, meeting the great Sherlock Holmes had cured his limp – seemingly miraculously – so why hadn't it done the same for the nightmares?<p>

It was only his second week living with the illustrious consulting detective, and John awoke to find himself tangled in bed sheets, sweating and cursing under his breath. The doctor waited a few moments, listening for any sound of movement in the flat, cringing at the thought that he'd perhaps woken the flat's only other inhabitant. No one besides John's therapist knew about the nightmares, after all, and it would certainly be an embarrassing breakfast conversation tomorrow if Sherlock had overheard John pleading for his life in the bedroom upstairs...

To his eternal gratification, however, the rest of the flat sounded undisturbed. Perhaps he hadn't been as loud as he'd thought – perhaps he hadn't vocalized the nightmare at all. The important thing was: his secret was safe. At least for now.

So it was with a lighter heart that John climbed out of bed to begin his post-nightmare routine. He had learned quickly that nightmares do not go away when you open your eyes. In fact, they're waiting for you the moment you roll over and try to reclaim sleep. No, you have to get up, move around, think new thoughts – only then could you try and start fresh, pretend you were lying down for the first time that night, even if it were closer to dawn than you'd like to admit.

John's routine consisted of a few fairly basic steps – and some not-so-basic emergency steps if the dream were a particularly cruel one. First, he would change his pajamas, leaving the sweat-soaked old ones in the hamper to be dealt with later.

Second, he would splash some cold water on his face and brush his teeth. Yes, brush his teeth – nothing fooled your body into thinking night-time was over more effectively than brushing one's teeth.

Third, he would make up a nice cup of tea – something warm and soothing like chamomile.

Fourth, he would pace, tea in hand, from one extreme corner of the room to it's opposite, on a diagonal, back and forth.

By the time the tea was gone, John was usually soothed enough – and the nightmare distant enough – that he could crawl back onto bed. If the nightmares were particularly troubling, or if they came back even after John had already gone through steps one through four, emergency measures would be needed. These might include step two becoming a full shower, or step three becoming a whole pot of tea as opposed to just a cup. Sometimes John would do a full set of fifty sit-ups before he began step one – clearing the mind through physical exertion was always handy, and sometimes he would watch a full DVD between steps three and four.

Sometimes nothing worked, and John would go through the entirety of his routine, only to lie in bed afterward and stare at the ceiling, unable to turn back off the light.

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><p>The second time John Watson had a nightmare at Baker Street, he was sure he had been found out. He could see the hall light on beneath his door – a proof positive that somebody (and there was really only one possible <em>somebody<em>) was outside his room…

And yet, as John went through the steps of his routine – step two in the bathroom, step three in the kitchen, step four in the living room – it appeared that he was the only one awake. There was no sign of Sherlock in any of the aforementioned shared living spaces, which meant he could only be in his own room – possibly still asleep?

John let himself believe that he had gotten away with it all a second time, and this made getting back to sleep just a little easier.

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><p>In the morning, however, the curly head of Sherlock Holmes peeped out above a newspaper and greeted him with a statement – not a question: "You still have nightmares, doctor."<p>

John froze mid-step as if he'd been caught doing something naughty. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, but the tone had sounded disapproving. "Er … yes, it seems I do," John answered, feeling the back of his neck prickle in embarrassment.

Sherlock gave the paper a little shake but did not lower it. He crossed his legs casually. "What does your therapist say?"

John swallowed, wishing his infuriating roommate would put down the bloody paper. "I stopped going, remember? When the limp, uh, went away, I stopped going."

"I see," said Sherlock, sounding absolutely uninterested.

John rubbed the back of his neck where the heat was becoming unbearable. "I'm sorry if I woke you…" he offered lamely. "I – I suppose I could start going again. To the therapist, I mean. Maybe it'll-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Sherlock, finally letting the paper drop to his lap. "The therapist couldn't cure your limp – what evidence is there to suggest she's be able to cure the nightmares?"

John chuckled. "Well, I suppose you're right" he said, "It was chasing murderers about London that cured the limp, but I doubt the same method would work on my-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted with a coy smile. His eyes were curiously bright and he grinned impishly as he said, "_I _cured your limp, Dr. Watson."

John choked on his cup of tea, trying to find a witty reply, when his friend simply stood, patted him good-naturedly on the shoulder, and left the room in a flurry of incurably messy hair and swirling blue dressing gown.

* * *

><p>The third time John Watson had a nightmare at Baker Street, he had been living with Sherlock Holmes almost a month. They had not spoken of his nightmares since the bizarre conversation last Sunday, and John awoke mortified for the third time that he'd potentially woken Sherlock <em>again<em>. Any normal roommate would surely get frustrated being woken at least one night out of seven by a crazy, emotionally-damaged ex-soldier screaming down the hall. As John climbed out of bed, he wondered idly if Sherlock were even now thinking of ways to tell him to pack his things and be gone.

But when he'd switched on the lights, all fear of his coming eviction seemed to evaporate, because somebody (and there could really only be one _somebody_) had recently laid out a clean pair of pajamas over the back of the chair in the corner of the room. John stared at them for a full minute before pulling them on.

And in the bathroom, well, there was a fresh hand towel lying next to the sink for John to dry his face – it was even warm, as if it had just come from the dryer. Beside it, John's toothbrush and a new tube of toothpaste were laid out in perfect parallel lines.

By the time John came to the kitchen, nothing could surprise him. So it was merely with a little chuckle that he took in the sight of his favorite mug – teabag already inside – sitting ready on the counter in a little space recently cleared off of all the usual rubbish. The kettle had been set to boil and John laughed out loud when it whistled its readiness only a second after he'd stepped into the kitchen. Perfectly timed, of course.

John returned to his bed warmed by chamomile tea and the certainty that he would not be leaving Baker Street any time soon, and smiled when he saw the hall light switch off beneath his door. An added bonus came in the form of a lovely lullaby, compliments of _somebody_ downstairs who was evidently quite talented with a violin. And really – there could be only one possible _somebody_ in this case.

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><p>The fourth time John Watson had a nightmare at Baker Street, he was really not so sorry at all.<p>

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><p><em><span>AN: Please let me know what you think. Especially with these drabbles, I really like some feedback: they make me far more inclined to write more drabbles - haha, what a productive use of my time..._


	5. Touches

_Author's Note__: I am very ashamed to say that I am giggling like a little schoolgirl, so excited am I to share this chapter with you. Although I am a huge believer in Holmes/Watson love, I am usually a fade-to-black type of a writer, content to believe that the pair's intimacy is present everywhere – not just in the bedroom. Therefore, this may be the most erotic thing I've written for Sherlock and John – ironic, of course, because there is no actual sex. I thought it might be fun to play with the idea of physical intimacy sans sex. I also think that John's claim that he is "not gay" is quite hilarious. Hence, this strange bit of a one-shot, haha. _

_I really hope you enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think. Please. I myself was blushing while writing it, and if I can have the same effect on my readers then I am definitely doing my job. Let me know : )_

_PS: if this is well received I may do a follow-up since there are far too many erotic parts of Sherlock Holmes to try and capture them all in a single one-shot…_

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><p>John Watson was definitely, <em>definitely<em> not gay.

It's what he'd told that Adler woman; it's what he told himself; it's what he told the queue of ex-girlfriends who had all dumped him for the same reason: they were tired of being constantly compared to Sherlock Holmes.

But really, honestly, truly – the man was as straight as an arrow. He'd played rugby in primary school, hidden an impressive collection of dirty magazines under his mattress in high school, and could recall _most_ of his illicit encounters with co-eds at university. It was enough to secure him in the knowledge that what he preferred, what he _wanted_, was women. Soft skin that always smelt good and softer curves that felt lovely under his fingers. It was obvious, wasn't it? John Watson was a perfectly healthy, _straight_, adult male.

So why – why the _hell_ – did the good doctor seem, on occasion, to entertain thoughts that were definitely – dangerously – borderline not-so-straight? And those thoughts – why did they seem to revolve around one person in particular?

Now, don't let's jump to conclusions. These disturbing thoughts of John's were not, strictly speaking, "sexual" in nature. John Watson did not want to _sleep_ with Sherlock Holmes – the very thought of himself and Sherlock trying to muddle their way through a tryst of any sort was enough to set John's cheeks burning and the contents of his stomach twisting and turning painfully.

But there were times – and, yes, they were few and far between – but there _were_ times when John would catch himself staring at the bit of skin shadowed in the hollow of Sherlock's throat. Maybe his friend would be saying something particularly dull, and John's eyes would just dip downward for a second – then stay there for many more seconds than they should have. Or maybe the pair would be standing face to face, somewhere out on a case, talking, and Sherlock would get distracted by something and turn his head away abruptly, exposing the clean flesh of his neck. Or maybe Sherlock would be lying on the couch, his head tilted back at an unreasonable angle over its arm, his chin thrust into the air, and John watching every breath and every swallow. Whatever the scenario, suddenly it would be there – that pale, glowing little bit of skin set just perfectly between delicate collarbones. It looked powder-soft and ridiculously, terrifyingly fragile, as if it were paper-thin. And sometimes, when it appeared – after an intake of breath, let's say – John would feel the overwhelming urge to press his thumb against it. Just gently, barely a touch. He couldn't tell you why – he barely knew himself – but he felt certain it would fit quite snugly there. That it would be warm, and comforting, and pleasant.

But of course, it was a very _un_-sexual urge, wasn't it? It was more a fascination than a sexual stimulant.

Wasn't it?

Oh, and then of course there was Sherlock's damned coat. Innocent enough, right? It was a fantastic coat, and surely anyone – straight men included – could admit that. Only it wasn't the coat, _per say_, that attracted John's terminal attention. It was only when the man himself were wearing said coat. Then, suddenly, the coat came alive – at least in John's eyes – in a dozen tantalizing little ways. Like the collar that brought just a pinch of color where it rubbed against his friend's elegant wind-whipped cheek. Or the place – when Sherlock pulled the coat tight around himself against the cold – the place where John could see the detective's slim torso slide down and become hips. John had caught himself – only a handful of times, remember – wondering what the skin of Sherlock's back might feel like. Slender shoulder blades and lean muscles that led down to the place just above the waistband of the trousers that Sherlock liked to wear much-too-low. Just as the little hollow of Sherlock's throat had invited John's thumb – so too did the small of the detective's back invite the palm of his hand. John could only imagine how warm and soft that place might be under the flesh of his hands.

Speaking of hands … Sherlock's were flawless. And not just the hands. Everything from fingertip to elbow fascinated John in a way he was not quite ready to deal with. The fingers alone were enough to make John stare: long, pale, with perfect pink nails. John knew for a fact that Sherlock's hands were nearly always ice-cold. And so damned _precise_ in their each and every movement. Whether Sherlock were deftly doing up the buttons of his favorite shirt, placing a glass slide delicately beneath a microscope lense, or nimbly plucking the strings of a violin, Sherlock's fingers never failed to captivate John. John (_straight_ John, mind you) found himself thinking absurd things like how he'd dearly like to take the cold, pale digits in his own, somehow make Sherlock's long fingers fit inside the grasp of his short, stubby ones, and bring them close to his mouth – right there against his lips, and exhale hot breath over them.

To warm them up, of course, and that was certainly a … _friendly_ thing to do, was it not?

And after the fingers came the wrist. That pale, fragile thing that was really much too small for the rest of his arm. Sherlock's wrists with their delicate little protruding bones terrified John, lest someone handle his beloved detective too roughly and snap them clean in two. And when you flipped the wrist over, well, _there_ would be that delicate little web-work of blue veins, pulsing stealthily underneath skin like white silk. John had never, technically, touched Sherlock there – not counting the many times he'd had to check his friend's pulse – and gauging Sherlock's odds of survival never really left much room in John's head for appreciating the beautiful, translucent skin of Sherlock's wrists.

And if you traced your index finger along the veins of Sherlock's wrist, you might almost imagine the route they would take if you were to run your finger slowly – quite, quite slowly – up the underside of Sherlock's pale forearm to the place where they reemerged as the veins in the crook of his elbow. More than Sherlock's throat, and more than the small of his back, this is the place John seemed to fixate upon. He had dreamt it once – and what a _strange_ dream it had been: Sherlock's arm resting palm-up as he sat in his armchair, and John on his knees beside the chair, propped up on the heels of his feet. Sherlock sitting silent and still and John delicately tracing – with one finger only – from the place where he could feel Sherlock's heart steadily beating to the place where needle-scars had left their mark on the otherwise flawless skin. Sherlock had shivered when John had reached that place, the inside of his elbow, as if he were ticklish. Sherlock smiled at him. And when John had traced his finger back down, over the warm skin, it was to find that the pulse in his friend's fragile wrist was beating faster...

But then, it had only been a dream.

It couldn't mean anything because, as everyone knows, John Watson is definitely _not_ gay.

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><p><em><span>AN__: What did you think? Was it too much of a tease? Shall I continue? _


	6. Hamish

_Author's Note__: So this is just a short something in honor of __**my**__ newest flatmate – an adorable kitten which I have proudly named Hamish. That's right, Dr. Watson, I was indeed looking for baby names, and I took you up on your offer, haha. Anyhow, it's all pretty silly and unedited, so please take it for what it is – shameless fluff._

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><p>John Watson had learned long ago that just because Sherlock called him six times, texted him forty-two times, and left eight threatening messages with the receptionist at the clinic, it did not necessarily mean "emergency". In fact, it usually just meant "bored". Oh this particular Tuesday afternoon, however, John knew exactly what had caused his flatmate's desperate attempts at communication.<p>

Sarah chuckled as John silenced his mobile and shrugged on his jacket. "Difficult night ahead?" she smiled.

John sighed wearily, but returned the smile with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "You have _no_ idea."

"What has he gotten himself into this time?"

"Actually," John admitted, "I'm afraid it was me that started the trouble this time..."

Sarah was about to question, but John was already out the door and hailing a cab.

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><p>The good doctor was not surprised to be greeted at the door by an irate consulting detective in a swirling bathrobe.<p>

"John!" he yelled, "John! What _have_ you done?"

John smiled fondly, "Calm down, Sherlock, it's-"

"I most certainly _will not_," Sherlock huffed. "How long has that _thing_ been loose in the flat?"

John pushed past his friend. "Only this morning. You, of all people, would have noticed if I'd been hiding him in the closet – you _do_ ransack my room on a regular basis."

Sherlock spun on his heel and stalked after John. "And you thought – you thought you could just _leave_ it in here – _with me_ – without so much as a _warning_?"

"Sorry for leaving you in such a _perilous position_, Sherlock," muttered John, distractedly, suddenly on his knees and peering under furniture. "Don't know what I was thinking…"

Sherlock made a shocked sound of indignation. "Oh!" he put his hands on his hips. "Oh, I see. You think it's all a joke, do you? Well, John _Hamish_ Watson," Sherlock spat his full name, "I will have you know that _thing_ could have ruined half a dozen experiments currently underway in the kitchen. Could have tripped me in the hall! Could have clawed my eyes out while I slept!"

John rolled his eyes and peered around the corner into the kitchen. "I think you're overreacting…"

Just then the source of all the fuss padded around the corner and looked up at the perplexing human duo with round hazel eyes. John smiled warmly and scooped the tiny creature up in his steady hands. With a nose nuzzled against tabby-brown fur, John offered the offending animal up to his friend's approval.

Sherlock looked down his hawk's nose at the little furry handful and curled a lip. "I," he enunciated clearly, "do – not – like – _cats_."

John pulled the kitten back in towards his chest protectively, away from Sherlock's spitting anger, and tutted reproachfully. "Oh, it's not a _cat_ – it's only a baby. A _kitten_, Sherlock, a kitten."

Sherlock's narrowed eyes never left the source of his distaste. "I fail to see how that makes any difference."

John scratched a finger behind the kitten's ear, frowning. "Aw, c'mon, I'll be bringing him to the shelter tomorrow. But he was digging about in the trash this morning, and I couldn't just _leave_ him…"

"Pray tell, _why not_?"

John looked mortified. "He's so _tiny_, Sherlock! He could've … I don't know, gotten eaten, or run over, or-"

"Survival of the fittest," Sherlock shrugged coldly and returned to the living room to plop down on the sofa.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, but the infuriating detective hid his face behind a book and said,

"Just keep it away from me, John."

And so it was that John spent the afternoon on his stomach in the middle of the messy living room, giggling like a little girl as the tiny kitten nipped and clawed at his wiggling fingers. He was so absurdly absorbed in the tiny creature that John did not even notice Sherlock's covert glances over the top of his book.

They were few and far between, and they didn't last very long, but they happened all the same. Just little curious glimpses, almost jealous, a pair of silver eyes over the top of a book, honed in on the sight of his flatmate – his partner – cuddling with a damned cat. But John did look _so_ happy, scratching the kitten under the chin, fingering its tiny ears, rubbing his nose into the tiny white belly…

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><p>The next morning, John stumbled into the living room and dropped his mug of tea.<p>

Sherlock turned his head violently to glare at John over his shoulder. "_Shhh_!" he hissed, "John, you'll wake him!"

John did not bother to clean up the tea. Rather, he kept right on staring at his flatmate, sprawled on the sofa with his long fingers curled protectively around a very familiar ball of tabby fur. If John didn't know better, he'd have sworn that the detective was purring right along with the kitten.

"Oh," Sherlock turned his head back around a second time, grinning innocently, "By the way, I've named him _Hamish_."

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><p><em><span>AN__: I do __**so**__ wish I could upload photos of my own little adorable Hamish…_


	7. Breathing

_Author's Note__: Yeah yeah, so this one's a bit angsty. I apologize. It's also pretty internal – i.e. character musings, etc. But I think they're fairly poignant, and I seem to be unable to resist the temptation of putting our boys in heart-breaking situations._

_I don't know what else to say other than thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. A special thank-you to **HowlynMad**, who reviewed all the chapters in one day, and who also has given me the idea of including adorable kitten Hamish in these one-shots from time to time : )_

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><p>Breathing was boring, yes. It was the bare minimum of existence, and existing was boring. It was just … well, it was <em>just<em> existing. It was stagnation, stalemate, superfluous bodily necessity. There was nothing exciting about just breathing. What had Moriarty said about just _staying_ alive? Sherlock had never realized their philosophies on life were so similar … or maybe he had, maybe that was the whole point. It didn't matter – it didn't change Sherlock's opinion. Breathing was boring – like eating, or sleeping – it was a means to an end. And the end – existing – had never really interested Sherlock all that much. Without the cases, without the work, Sherlock knew he'd probably cash in his chips on the whole breathing thing – it was overrated anyhow. Because the body was just transport, wasn't it? Because existing was for ordinary people. Sherlock had never wanted to merely _exist_ – he'd wanted so much more. Though, of course he couldn't have told you what "more" was. At least, not before John Watson…

Which was why as Sherlock sat curled in a helpless ball in a chair there beside the hospital bed, watching the man across from him wrestle with death, he decided that breathing was not so boring after all. Certainly not when John did it. As Sherlock listened to the harsh beeping of the life monitor, he shook his head at his own stupidity. No, when John was breathing it was more than existing. It was living, when John did it. It was loving and thriving and enlightening.

"Sherlock," a voice said, but it was not the voice he'd wanted to hear.

"Please leave, Mycroft."

"There is nothing more to be done here."

"I think I asked you to leave."

Mycroft stood in the doorway, looking as imperious as ever. "You have been in that chair for almost seventy-two hours."

"I'm aware."

Mycroft sighed. "I told you I would stay, if you wished to return to the flat and get some-"

"I don't need _rest_."

"Everyone needs rest, Sherlock," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You are going to crash eventually."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously. "_I_ don't need rest," he reaffirmed.

"Are you suggesting you are somehow exempt from the bodily needs of lesser mortals?" Mycroft scoffed.

"Yes," Sherlock said before he'd had a moment to think it through. And yet … it was accurate somehow.

Breathing was boring. Sherlock had always wanted something more … well, _John_ had been his more. And if John would cease breathing, then Sherlock would do likewise. It was not self-destructive; it was merely the bizarre symmetrical logic of Sherlock's twisted mind. Sherlock didn't care for existence – the only thing keeping him above sustenance level was John's breathing. If John Watson stopped breathing, Sherlock Holmes would stop existing. It was as natural as any law of physics.

"I see," Mycroft mused, fingering the chain of his pocket watch.

Sherlock ignored him. He kept his eyes locked on the blankets covering his friend as they rose and fell with every labored breath.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft pressed.

Silence.

"If I say 'please'?" Mycroft tried again.

Sherlock's frown deepened, and he waved a hand in Mycroft's general direction. "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me in peace now."

"Sherlock, this is serious. You haven't eaten or slept in _three days_. If you persist in this foolishness, you will have your very own hospital right beside Dr. Watson's."

As soon as he'd said it, Mycroft wished he could take it back.

Sherlock finally looked up to lock eyes with his brother. His lips pulled up in a manic sort of half-smile, but his eyes remained gaunt and empty. "I fail to see the problem."

Mycroft could only stare back at his brother. He had known it would come to this. He'd known from the beginning that it could not be otherwise. He nodded curtly and left Sherlock to wither away in a hospital cot.

He had no way of knowing if the good doctor would pull through – even the best medical practitioners in the United Kingdom could offer no reassurance. But one thing was certain: if John lived, then Sherlock would survive. But if John Watson stopped breathing ... Sherlock Holmes would cease to exist. For better or worse – in life or death – Sherlock would share John's fate.

Mycroft had no say in the breathing debate and whether or not it was boring, but he supposed it all depended on your perspective - on who was, or was not, beside you, breathing the same air.

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><p><em><span>AN__: So what's your contention, dear reader? Is breathing boring?_


	8. Questions

_Author's Note: Hello everyone! Finally graduated and back to writing for all of you lovely people. This is just a little something to get me back in the swing of things - for those of you who are waiting (so patiently) for an update to "Though This Be Madness", I can promise you it's coming soon. I'm writing it in a slightly different style so it might take a little while to work out the kinks. But thank you to everyone who has been so patient with me; I can promise at least that the shorts on this story will keep coming at regular intervals. I wrote this thinking that it might be fun to play with the idea of the sort of "behind-the-scenes" of what happened immediately after that first case, when the two men are both still practically strangers. They had, after all, only just met, and yet shared an adventure so huge that John (at least) would be completely thrown off. What I wanted to get across in this story: John's excitement and enthusiasm having just met someone so incredible and been a part of something so epic, and Sherlock's understated happiness at having what is turning out to be perhaps his first real friend. It's meant to be light-hearted, but I wanted to include an ending that would hint at a deeper relationship later on. So..._

_Thanks again, and please enjoy!_

* * *

><p>It was the night after that first case – the taxi driver case, only later to be referred to as "A Study in Pink". Sherlock Holmes had cracked the case in an astonishing blaze of wit and bravery (or idiocy, depending on your perspective), and John Watson had tracked the detective from the backseat of a cab, dashed through an abandoned building at top speeds, and shot a man dead in defense of aforementioned detective. Adrenaline was running high as the two men ducked beneath the yellow caution-tape and sauntered away from the crime scene. The detective suggested dinner and the doctor enthusiastically agreed.<p>

Four hours later found the pain sprawled on the living room floor of the notorious flat at 221b Baker Street, surrounded by fortune-cookie fortunes and brown paper take-away bags. Outside the sun was beginning to rise, but inside the excited energy was tangible. John Watson was stuffed full of Chinese and enjoying the light-headed happiness that came with what he considered to be a few well-deserved beers. Sherlock Holmes was full to bursting with righteous egoism and enjoying the floating elation of having a slightly-buzzed new flatmate shower with him well-deserved compliments. Brilliant, fantastic, spectacular… All in a day's work.

Then John sat up suddenly, crossing his legs like an excited schoolboy and grasping them at the ankles. "Okay okay," he smiled sloppily. "I'm going to test you."

Sherlock titled his head back and looked upwards to eye John amusedly from his spot still lying on the floor. "If you'd like."

"Well, you can't possibly know as much as you _think_ you know."

"I assure you I do," Sherlock folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes like a haughty, contented cat.

"So you know _everything_ … about everything?" John's eyebrows scrunched up in disbelief.

Sherlock frowned fractionally for a moment. "Well," he qualified, "I'd appreciate it if you'd contain your inquiries within the spheres of chemistry, criminology, anatomy, physiology, physics, geology, psychiatry, biology, and mathematics. While my knowledge outside of these fields is quite extensive, I'm afraid I do not feel wholly confident in my claim to know _everything_ in fields other than those which I have just mentioned."

John chuckled, "Ah," he said, "I see. Well, I'll do my best to stick to the specified areas of expertise."

Sherlock missed the sarcasm and nodded seriously. "Fire away," he said, eyes still closed.

John's eyebrows came together in concentration. Though Sherlock could not see it, the doctor's tongue was poking between his lips. "Okay…" he began hesitantly. "Okay, chemistry. Do you know …. Hm, do you know the … atomic mass of … Plutonium?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes."

John rolled his eyes. "Sorry," he clarified, "_what_ is the atomic mass of Plutonium?"

"Plutonium," the dark-haired man recited, "Atomic number: ninety-four, atomic mass: two-hundred and forty-four, density: nineteen point eighty-four grams per centimeter cubed."

John sat in silence a moment or two before reaching around to grab his laptop.

Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound and quirked an eyebrow. "Checking my answers? I'm insulted."

John ignored him in favor of plunking out the keys to pull up the pertinent information. "Bloody hell," he breathed, "fucking brilliant."

"Tut tut," Sherlock scolded mildly. "Language, doctor."

"Bugger off," John rebounded with a fresh determination. "What's the speed of light, then, genius?"

The detective waved his hand dismissively as if it were the simplest question in the world. "I assume you're referring to the speed of light in a vacuum – as opposed to the speed of light through air, water, or glass for instance – in which case the speed of light would be three-hundred thousand kilometers per second."

John seemed undeterred. "How many bones in the human skeleton?" he demanded.

Sherlock chuckled at his determination. "Two-hundred and six bones in an adult human body – children have three-hundred but some of these will fuse together as they mature."

"How many times does a person blink in … a day?"

"Approximately seventeen-thousand, assuming the individual is not particularly dishonest, as humans blink almost twice as much when they are being intentionally deceitful."

"What's the temperature of a bolt of lightning?"

"Thirty-thousand degrees Celsius," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "Interestingly, that's almost six times hotter than the sun itself."

"Do mosquitoes have teeth?"

Sherlock laughed, a low rumble in his throat. "Is that pertinent?"

John chuckled guiltily. "Not particularly. Just curious."

Sherlock spun around to face John, sitting on the floor, and smiled indulgently. "I heard once that mosquitoes in fact have forty-seven teeth, but I am not certain the source was entirely reliable."

John nodded sagely and continued along with his interrogation. "How fast do fingernails grow?"

"Approximately two centimeters each year."

"Why is perfect vision called twenty-twenty? What does twenty-twenty mean?"

"It means the eye can see perfectly at twenty feet, but twenty-fifteen is actually superior – it means the eye can see at twenty feet what another eye sees at fifteen feet."

"What's the most common blood type?"

"O."

"How much blood in the human body?"

"Approximately five-point-six liters, or about one-twelfth the individual's weight."

"Which will kill you first – lack of sleep or lack of food?"

"Sleep deprivation can kill you in ten days – starvation can take weeks."

John was leaning forward, his face serious. He quirked an eyebrow: a final challenge. "How many decimals of pi do you know?"

Eyes sparkling bright and defiant, Sherlock took a deep breath: challenge accepted...

"Three point one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five-eight-nine-seven-nine-three-two-three-eight-four-six …"

As the detective rattled off numbers, the doctor lost his look of giddy excitement. His face became drawn and serious. Sherlock was looking to the ceiling, deep in thought. "… Two-six-four-three-three-eight-three-two-seven-nine-five-zero-two-eight-eight-four-one-nine-seven-one-six-nine-three…"

John was frowning suddenly, a frown that Sherlock could not see. He was watching the man before him rattle off pi decimals with less effort that a computer, but it was no longer a game. All the joy seemed to have gone out of him, leaving him with one startling and saddening realization:

"You're very lonely," he interrupted.

Sherlock's eyes refocused on John, he looked confused and his voice faltered. "I … " he began.

"That one wasn't a question," John said softly.

Sherlock looked about the room, embarrassedly keeping his eyes anywhere but on his companion. "It's late," he finally mumbled, rather pathetically, "or early, depending on your perspective…"

John watched him dumbly, the last traces of his buzz leaving him with nothing but a feeling of exhaustion and a growing sense of sympathy for the most fascinating person he'd ever met.

Sherlock waited for John to respond, but the doctor just stared, silent and still.

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat and patted the wrinkles from his shirt self-consciously. "Goodnight, Dr. Watson."

And just as the taller man had reached the edge of the room, he heard his companion respond.

"It's just John," the doctor said softly from his lonely spot on the floor, "We _are_ friends, aren't we?"

Sherlock's shoulders tensed; he did not turn around. But he smiled into the darkness and corrected his mistake: "Goodnight, John."

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><p><em><span>AN: By the way, I cannot be held responsible for the accuracy of the information provided here as they all came from google search "interesting science facts" haha, so please be gentle on that score._


	9. Broken

_Author's Note: Hello! I thought I'd try my hand at one of these nifty little "221b" drabbles - they are incredibly difficult to write, much more so than I had previously thought. Anyhow, please let me know what you think._

_PS - I don't know why I love putting our dear Dr. Watson in life-threatening positions (or killing him off altogether), but it seems to be developing into a hobby of mine, hehe._

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was the best in the business.<p>

The man could look at any crime scene, fingers splayed and hovering over the evidence, soaking up the data, the clues, the essence of the past, and turn on his heel to deliver a brilliant and astonishing conclusion. Gregory Lestrade knew this – had witnessed Sherlock work his magic countless times before.

So when the call had come in for the Inspector to report to Regent's Park and the body of a middle-aged white male – a murder with no leads and nothing to go on – Lestrade was certain he would be calling in some help.

The scene of the crime was a grisly one. There was blood everywhere – painting the lawn brown, staining the victim's fingernails, drying in the wrinkles of his face.

Lestrade stood for a moment entranced, as if he had never seen such a horrifying sight. He drew in a quick breath through his nose and felt weighty tears form behind his eyes because he knew, quite suddenly, that he would be solving this case all on his own.

The body splayed in the grass was John Watson's. And Lestrade knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his days of enlisting Sherlock's Holmes' help were over. This crime scene, this last crime scene, would leave the brilliant consulting detective broken.


	10. Hero

**OR:**

**"Six Times Sherlock Holmes Was Ashamed to be Himself ... And One Time He Wasn't"**

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><p><em><span>Author's Note<span>: Well hello all. I hope you all enjoy this little bit of a one-shot - it comes from the desire I've always had to write something on that scene between John and Sherlock in the taxi on the way to Moriarty's trial when Sherlock says, "I'll just be myself". It is ALSO an attempt to stave off the writer's block that has been plaguing me since I last posted in "Though This Be Madness". I am aware that the format of these stories usually reads "FIVE times" vs. "one time", but I realized when I'd finished writing this that I had written six times that Sherlock was ashamed to be himself and then I just couldn't decide which one to delete. So please, excuse the excess ficlet lol and we can all be happy in the end. I also am not quite certain why this story came out written in the present tense, it just sort of happened that way..._

_Anyhow, please enjoy, I am rather pleased with this drabble myself..._

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><p>The year is 1986. Sherlock Holmes is eight years old and George McFarlin has stolen his math homework to copy the answers. Little McFarlin has done this because, as everyone knows, that "freak" Sherlock is a genius and his answers are always right. The will-be detective is now sitting in the muddy lawn outside Taft Hall where Mcfarlin has pushed him down and is plotting his revenge.<p>

Sherlock Holmes is eight years old and some small part of him still clings to a boyish dream of one day becoming a pirate. This is why Sherlock Holmes does not question the fact that the method of revenge he chooses involves walloping young George McFarlin over the head with a wooden pirate sword – the one Sherlock keeps hidden in his school bag at all times in case of just such trouble as this. George McFarlin cries out loud and tells teacher that Sherlock Holmes tried to murder him.

An hour later, in the headmaster's office, Sherlock's big brother Mycroft is waiting. When the headmaster explains to the older Holmes what has happened, big brother pats Sherlock reassuringly on the shoulder and says to the headmaster: "You must forgive him, sir, but he really _does_ think he's a pirate."

Sherlock smiles a small smile because it's true – he _is_ a pirate and he is quite proud.

The headmaster frowns at Mycroft Holmes – the school's biggest brownnose – and says sternly, "Well that is simply unacceptable."

Ten-year-old Mycroft sees the disapproval in his elder's eyes and surreptitiously removes his hand from his brother's shoulder. "I completely agree, sir."

Sherlock Holmes is eight years old and he frowns because suddenly, when even his own brother refuses to take his side, being a pirate doesn't seem like quite so much fun. In fact, it feels rather lonely, and eight-year-old Sherlock slouches in his chair and is ashamed.

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><p>The year is 1992. Sherlock Holmes is fourteen years old. He is away at Eton and the school is planning a Valentine's Day dance, at which time the all-boys school will play host to its sister school: the all girl's St. Catherine Academy.<p>

Sherlock is packing up his books after chemistry when his favorite teacher, Mr. Fawley, asks for a word. The boy genius waits silently for the other students to file past and then asks, "Sir?"

Mr. Fawley smiles at Sherlock and asks kindly, "Are you planning on attending Saturday's dance, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stares in confusion for a moment. Surely Mr. Fawley knows that he has no friends? Well, except Victor Trevor, of course, but Sherlock suspects Victor probably doesn't like dances very much. For that matter, neither does he. "I don't think so, sir."

"No?" Mr. Fawley frowns, "Are you quite sure? Dances are a lot of fun. Some of my best memories from my time at Eton were from dances just like the one coming up."

Fourteen-year-old Sherlock is unconvinced. "Oh?"

"Yes indeed," says Mr. Fawley. "You might be surprised to find you'll have quite a pleasant time. And you must remember to ask that special someone for a dance," the teacher adds with a wink and a fatherly smile.

Sherlock spends all week considering, and when Saturday night arrives it finds the young prodigy lurking about the punch bowl at the Valentine's Day dance watching Victor chat up some girls across the room. When he saunters back over to Sherlock, he throws a companionable arm about his friend's shoulder. The detective-to-be feels himself blush, making his ears uncomfortably hot.

"Victor," Sherlock clears his throat nervously, "I was wondering if perhaps you would like to dance?"

After that, the evening does not go very well for fourteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes. Not only does Victor turn him down (politely, yes, but quite firmly), but some of the other boys overhear and call him a "poof" before dumping the punch bowl over his head. The worst of all, however, is when Mr. Fawley pulls young Sherlock aside to explain that he most certainly did _not_ mean Mr. Trevor when he'd said "someone special" – he had, of course, meant one of the girls from St. Catherine's.

"But sir," Sherlock tries miserably to explain, "I don't like-"

"Mr. Holmes," Sherlock's favorite teacher interrupts, "you must be aware that there is a code of conduct at this school and we do _not_ permit behavior of questionable morality."

Sherlock Holmes is fourteen years old and he does not say anything because even if Mr. Fawley cannot understand, Victor is the only "someone special" in his life. And while he has never heard the word "poof" before tonight, it makes him desperately ashamed of the way he blushes when Victor touches him and the way he had always felt so safe when Victor was around. It is perhaps his first hard lesson in love, and Sherlock Holmes is taught once again that who he is is quite unacceptable.

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><p>The year is 1997. Sherlock Holmes is nineteen years old. He has no friends, university is a bore, and the delinquent genius is angry and frustrated with life.<p>

It is Wednesday night, and approximately five hours ago, Sherlock decided that breathing was boring - too boring, in fact, to be continued.

Now, he is lying in a hospital bed with an IV tube connected to his left elbow and a very aggravated-looking older brother glaring at him from the visitor's chair.

"Oh good," Mycroft says sarcastically, "you're awake."

Sherlock scowls and wishes he were still unconscious.

"How many times must we go through this, little brother? I grow weary of having to track you down in alleys and fish you out of gutters. Isn't it about time you gave up this charade? The indifference, the drugs – it's getting a bit old, don't you think?"

Sherlock frowns. Mycroft thinks it was simply another overdose, but Sherlock does not bother to correct him. "Perhaps you should leave," says nineteen-year-old Sherlock, not bothering to make eye contact.

"I will," Mycroft aggress, "and this will be the last time I'm woken in the middle of the night to come rescue you. So please, do just focus on your studies and try to join the world of normal, productive human beings."

Sherlock laughs lowly. "I'm sorry," he says scornfully, "did I embarrass you again, Mycroft? "

Mycroft doesn't bat an eye when he responds coldly and clearly: "You are an addict, Sherlock. You are not only an embarrassment, but a disappointment."

The door slams and nineteen-year-old Sherlock closes his eyes in the darkness of the hospital room. He is alone and naked beneath his hospital gown. The world is cold and quite cruel and Sherlock is sure there is no place at all for a person like him.

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><p>The year is 2005. Sherlock Holmes is twenty-seven years old. He is striding along behind Detective Inspector Lestrade, on his way to investigate his first crime scene – well, the first crime scene he will have <em>permission <em>to investigate. Sherlock is feeling giddy and a little self-righteous because he is quite sure he has already solved the crime in its entirety – a look at the body will only confirm his theories.

Sherlock Holmes arrives to several pairs of eyes watching him suspiciously – other officers, clearly uncomfortable with his presence and jealous of the way their Inspector has raved about his abilities – but Sherlock is unperturbed. He examines the body and the surrounding area, has barely been at work for three minutes – when he turns to the others and delivers his verdict.

D.I. Lestrade sets a few other officers to work and chuckles happily to himself before congratulating Sherlock and thanking him profusely for his assistance. Once out of earshot of the other Scotland Yarders, Lestrade even offers Sherlock a permanent position as a consultant.

Sherlock beams. He is twenty-seven years old, but perhaps he has finally found it – a place to belong.

Yes, elementary school had been a nightmare, and Eton was hell on earth for a gangly, pubescent boy genius. Cambridge had been miserable with its profusion of ignorant, rich coeds and mind-numbing classes, certainly. But perhaps this – perhaps being a _consulting detective_ – well, that might be just the thing he had been looking for all those years. The name had a certain ring to it, certainly, and swanning around a crime scene in his elegant greatcoat, proving his genius to lesser mortals – well, nothing had ever made him feel quite so alive.

Sherlock Holmes shakes the hand of Gregory Lestrade and is about to duck beneath the yellow caution tape when he hears it: a few snickering voices, just loud enough so that he can hear them. One says "freak", another says "weirdo, and a final says "psychopath".

Sherlock Holmes is twenty-seven years old and he realizes that the voices from his past cannot be silenced – they are here with him now, calling him the names he rightly deserves.

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><p>The year is 2012. Sherlock Holmes is thirty-four years old and he is sitting in a taxi with his flatmate and – dare he say it – friend, Dr. John Watson, on the way to the trial of James Moriarty.<p>

Sherlock is nervous – a feeling with which he is not familiar – and John is trying to give him advice.

"Remember what I told you," John says.

"Yes."

Sherlock cannot help the deadpan of his voice. He cannot help being just the tiniest bit annoyed with John. No one seems to understand – the trial is a sham, it must be. Moriarty is smarter than this – Moriarty is planning something. Sherlock is scared because nothing he says at the trial is going to make a difference anyway.

"God forbid the star witness of the trial should come across as intelligent," he snaps, and he knows there is venom in his words.

"Intelligent, fine," John says, irritated, "Let's give smartass a wide berth."

Sherlock looks out the window, watches London pass him by. "I'll just be myself," he says, and in some small way, it is a challenge.

"Are you listening to me?" John asks angrily.

Sherlock sighs. He is thirty-four years old and realizes again that everyone – even this person, even John, who had seemed so different, so … accepting – will find something wrong with him. Sherlock Holmes has been called a freak, a poof, a psychopath – and so he cannot understand that John is only angry because John is scared too, scared for _him_. All he hears is one more person condemning him for who and what he is.

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><p>The year is 2012. Sherlock Holmes is thirty-four years old, and he was right about everything. The trial was a sham, Moriarty has won, and this is the end of Sherlock Holmes.<p>

"Molly … I think I'm going to die."

It's strange how surreal everything feels – how distant Sherlock feels as he discusses the future he will not be a part of because he'll be "dead". It's eerie how even though his death will be a fake one, it makes him reflect on a life that perhaps wasn't really worth living in the first place.

At thirty-four years old, Sherlock Holmes thinks back to all the times when he was ashamed to be Sherlock Holmes. He thinks of George McFarlin and his pirate sword, he thinks of Victor Trevor and his "morally questionable" adolescent crush, he thinks of needles and gutters and the disapproving glare of his elder brother, he thinks of Sally Donovan and the word "freak" as it followed him home, but mostly he thinks of John and that taxi ride. John, who in a few hours time will think him dead and a fraud. John, who had accepted all of Sherlock's other names – "freak", "poof", "psychopath" – but who had contemptuously added one to the list himself, "smartass", and who might not be able to accept the final name Sherlock would adopt: "fake".

Molly Hooper is watching Sherlock carefully. She is seeing the doubt in his eyes, and the fear, and the self-loathing. "Sherlock?"

The sound of his own name brings the detective back for a moment, and he quirks an eyebrow at the young woman across from him, hoping she cannot see how close he is to tears – hoping she cannot see how seriously he is considering jumping for real. "Yes?"

"I think it's terribly brave what you're doing."

Sherlock Holmes cannot comprehend what she means. _Brave_ does not factor into the equation at all. There is a problem to be solved – there are people in danger, people he loves – and this is the only logical solution to that problem. "I don't … understand."

Molly smiles a little sadly and puts her hand over Sherlock's. "Risking everything, doing something so daring, to keep them safe, to keep John safe – it's completely selfless."

Sherlock frowns at the physical contact, but he knows Molly means well. She has a funny way of speaking sometimes though – about feelings and things that he cannot feel and sentiments he cannot understand. "Selfless?"

"Yes," she says, "you're a hero."

Sherlock Holmes is thirty-four years old and while he cannot understand "brave" or "selfless", "hero" is a fairly concrete noun and he thinks he can wrap his mind around it. "Hero" is someone who saves other people – "hero" is someone who protects people. Sherlock Holmes thinks of Lestrade sitting in his office, and Mrs. Hudson making tea, and John – dear John – who will be there at the very end, and he smiles because this is something he cannot be ashamed of. Sherlock Holmes will go to his death unflinchingly. He will smile and he will fall gladly because for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is not ashamed of who he is.

A hero.

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><p><em><span>AN: I hope you enjoyed! I wanted to try out a litter simpler of a writing style than I normally use, and this format seemed to work nicely. Please let me know what you think, and if I should try this "five times" vs. "one time" style-thiny again. Thanks!_


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